


dont open a vein

by abo_trash



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Blood, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abo_trash/pseuds/abo_trash
Summary: She takes his hand, and tries to ignore how it makes her heart flutter and chest ache in a way she isn’t used to, except for when Heather is talking to her in that sweet tone, or when Heather is leaning against her. She chooses to ignore that too, because today is a day for ignoring everything it seems, even common sense.





	1. Chapter 1

She wakes up to find herself in a stranger’s bed. Not for the first time, and she’s certain it won’t be the last. But that doesn’t make it any easier and doesn’t stop the urge to cry from swelling up in her chest. Still, she’s amazingly calm as she checks the other side of the bed and finds that, yes, she is alone. The other side of the bed is cold, and hell, it honestly looks like it hasn’t been slept in all night. She isn’t sure if that should make her feel better or worse though, and tries to decide on better, despite the way her chest aches.

Even with her mind fuzzy and last night a haze, she knows the drill for one night stands. She’s been through it enough to know it by heart by now. Get her clothes and get out, before his parents or roommates find out. Find her way home from there. And, at some point, try to remember what happened last night, and who she slept with, if she doesn't encounter him on her way out the door. If he wore a condom, or if she needs to count weeks and days and hope and pray. Struggling through a lingering fog in her mind and against the urge to cry, a headache just starting to pound at the base of her skull, she slips to the edge of the bed. Her feet just barely touch the carpet when she’s sitting on the edge of it, and she takes a moment to look around, to gather her surroundings in hopes it’ll give her some clue as to where she is and who she slept with. The room barely looks lived in and there isn’t much in it to tell her anything at all, and that worries her more than the empty bed.

It takes her a minute to stand up completely and entirely straight. Her body is sluggish, not quite responding to what she wants it to do, and she almost falls to the floor. Almost. She manages to catch herself on the edge of the nearby desk in the room, just barely, and leans against it for support. She takes the moment to look over herself, checking for bruises or blood, and finds that she isn’t naked like she originally thought. It feels like something she should have noticed when she woke up, but her head is swimming, the room is spinning, so everything comes as a surprise. And while not being naked should make her feel better, to see that she’s dressed in some boy’s t-shirt and a pair of boxers, well, it makes her heart ache, because it means she was naked, at some point, around him, because that’s not her dress from last night. Whoever he is, he saw her naked and gave her clothes to sleep in. She hopes that she dressed herself, but knows it’s just as likely that he did.

A quick search and pat down reveals no blood, no bruises, and better yet, nothing sticky leaking out of her. She knows that it’s possible to have been cleaned up afterwards, that’s happened to her too, but it gives her a small bit of comfort that she’s willing to revel in for now, because it’s exactly what she needs. Maybe he was nice enough to use a condom. It’s not likely, because guys often complain about how uncomfortable they are, but it’s still a possibility, unlikely as it may be. Finding herself unmarked and with nothing aching more than her head, she pushes off the desk, and stumbles towards the door, not seeing her dress from the night before anywhere around. Her feet drag, the room spins, and it tilts dangerously. With her head throbbing and movements sluggish, she knows she’s either hungover or she got drugged, and while she can’t remember drinking too much, she really hopes it’s the former, but knows it’s probably the latter. She’s small and easy to pick up, as the top of the pyramid in the cheer squad has to be, so guys target her the most out of the Heathers. This wouldn’t be the first time she’s been drugged, and probably won’t be the last.

Trying not to think about who could have drugged her at Ram’s party the night before, she focuses on the door. The closer she gets, the farther away it seems, and it’s starting to make her sick to her stomach. Everything is distantly fuzzy and shaking and she’s almost certain she’s going to fall over before she reaches the door that keeps moving away from her. Just as she’s certain she’s stuck, not going anywhere and destined to spend her life trapped in some stranger’s bedroom, the door opens. And he steps through.

_He_ isn’t Kurt, or Ram, or any boy she knows of the top of her head. She knew that it wasn’t Kurt or Ram, because she’s woke up enough times in their rooms with no memory of the night before to know what their rooms look like, and this isn’t theirs. Still, that would have offered some comfort, to know it was them, and they had maybe got new furniture or something. But no. He’s not Kurt or Ram or any of Heather’s boy toys. Hell, she doesn’t know who he is. He’s wrapped up in a trench coat, one she’s sure that Heather would gag at the sight of, and kinda weird looking. He reminds her of the kids that hang out behind the school and wear all black, but she tries not to think of them just then, because unlike the time she woke up in one of their beds, he’s got a tray in his hands. It’s just got a glass of water and her clothes all neatly folded, but damn, that’s everything she needs just then.

Still, seeing him in the doorway and knowing she probably- more than likely, if she’s honest with herself- had sex with him and doesn’t remember it like she never remembers, it’s enough to bring back the urge to cry. And this time, she’s not strong enough to push it down. Not with him right there. So she cries. It starts off with a small hiccup, but in seconds, she’s collapsed to her knees on the worn and dingy carpet, and is full out sobbing.

“Oh. Shit. Please don't cry,” he tries to comfort, and it’s more than anyone else has ever done. Even Heather and Heather just tell her to suck it up. That thought makes her cry harder, covering her face with her hands and curling up in a ball, and silently begging to just be home already, away from the nicest guy that she’s ever slept with without remembering it, and the night a distant memory. An arm wraps around her shoulders and pulls her close and she has to wonder when he managed to get that close to her, even as she buries her face in his chest and sobs. He wraps both arms around her then, hugging her tight against his chest, and he sighs into her hair in a way that makes her want to cry more. “Hey, listen, I promise we didn’t have sex or anything, okay?”

“We… we didn’t?” she chokes out, pulling her face from his chest enough to look up at him, and just barely sees him nod through her tears.

“We didn’t,” he confirms, and it takes a huge weight off of her shoulders. “You came stumbling up to me when I was coming out of the 7/11 last night, drunk off your ass. You said something about scrunchies and pig piñatas, and then just… Threw up all over yourself. I couldn’t get you to tell me where you lived, or even your name, so I brought you home and gave you some of my clothes to sleep in while I washed yours. They’re all clean now, by the way.” Hearing him explain, it takes a weight off of her chest. No counting weeks. No rumours that she can’t deny. No notches on boy’s belts. Not this weekend, anyways. It makes her shoulders tremble, and she starts to cry again before she knows it. “Fuck. Why are you crying now? I told you we didn’t have sex.”

“I’m… Th-they're…. Happy tears,” she manages to sputter, and he goes quiet, just holding her against his chest as she cries. She enjoys the contact while she’s got it, because she can’t remember the last time someone hugged her without wanting something else in return, and she misses the feeling. Human contact is a rarity, even with the other Heathers being so close to her all the time, and the feeling of his arms around her are enough to make her want to start crying anew. She manages to choke down the feeling and put back the lid over her emotions in record time though, pulling away from his chest and straightening up. “I’m used to waking up with cum dripping out of me and no memory of how it got there, and… I’m glad this weekend isn’t the same.”

“That’s disgusting. What kind of sick fuck would do that?” he asks, and she can’t stop herself from answering, even if she wants to, because it’s an automatic response really, but still, true all the same.

“Kurt. Or Ram. Depends on who finds me first.” She realises what she’s said then and shakes her head, scrubbing the heels of her palms into her eyes to wipe away the tears. She changes direction, remembering what he had said about her not telling him her name. Well, she can tell him that, it’s not like that’s gonna change anything. She’s already smeared yesterday’s mascara on his shirt and probably barfed on his shoes the night before. “I’m Heather, by the way. Heather McNamara. Thanks for taking care of me last night.”

“You’re welcome,” he sighs, and she doesn’t look at him, instead focusing on finding where he sat down the tray. It’s just out of her reach, so she scoots a little closer and takes the glass of water. She doesn’t dare meet his eye as she downs it in three quick gulps, surprised by how dry her throat really was. “I knew who you were, though. I just needed to know how drunk you were. You know, you’ve got quite the reputation around school. Cheer captain, loaded, mega bitch, and apparently a common target for date rape. I think everyone knows who you are.” There’s another pause, and she can only shrug in agreement, because it’s true. All of it. The mega bitch, that’s part of being a Heather, but the rest, that's just her, and she's not going to hide it. She’s not going to deny a word of it, because she’s never one to deny the truth. When he starts speaking again though, it scares her, because there’s something else in his tone that she isn’t used to. “You borrowed a pencil from me the other day in history too. And told me you liked my shirt, even though your friend was groaning the entire time. Is she always like that?”

“Heather? Yeah, pretty much.” She isn’t even sure which Heather he means, or hell, which Heather _she_ means, but they’re both practically the same, so it doesn’t matter. He could mean Heather Duke, and she could mean Heather Chandler, but honestly, both work, and she isn’t going to try asking what her friend looked like, because honestly, she doesn’t _care_ and she doubts he does either. She squeezes her eyes shut as her head throbs, and tries to remember what he’s talking about. History… History… The memory comes in jagged and faded, and all she can really remember is that small smile he had gave her as he held out the pencil and Heather snapped at her, all sharp teeth and claws, ready to take her head off. She had ignored her, and gave the pencil back at the end of class, and well, she almost wishes she had the balls to ignore her on a regular basis. Instead, she knows she'll never have the guts to do that again, especially not when it comes to him. Another memory surfaces as she thinks about him, the one of him fighting with Kurt and Ram the day before in the cafeteria. With a sigh, she cracks an eye open, and meets his eyes, not entirely hiding the pain in her features from thinking about Heather. “You’re the same guy that got in a fight with Kurt and Ram the other day, aren’t you? Gotta admit, that was pretty cool of you. I thought Veronica was going to make a puddle where she was standing.”

She frowns and rubs a hand over her face, realising that was not the right thing to say. Sure, it was something Heather would have said, but while she was a Heather, she wasn’t _Heather_. He doesn’t seem to mind her comment though, shrugging it off and nodding that it was him, and she’s instantly grateful. As she looks him over, getting to see him up close in a way that she didn’t get to see before when he was fighting Kurt and Ram, or when Heather was biting her head off for asking a nobody for a pencil, it hits her that she should probably ask for his name. Hell, she slept in his bed last night, and he was nice enough to wash puke out of her favourite party dress, so asking his name should have been the first question out of her mouth. “Ya know, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Because, I didn’t throw it.” Not having been expecting something so smooth, she can feel her cheeks starting to burn, even as she turns her head away from him and stares distantly at the wall. She had been expecting him to spit it out, to tell her his name and kick her out, but that… That was borderline flirting.

“Right,” she mumbles, and he chuckles. It’s a smooth sound too, one that makes her insides flutter and squeeze, and she wants to hear more of it.Damn. Already, she wants to spend more time with him, wants to know more about him, and hell, she’s barely even talked to him. She blames it on being so starved for human contact and interaction that isn’t totally horrible, because she’d rather think that than think of the fact that he’s actually kinda cute and she honestly wouldn’t mind too much if she _had_ slept with him.

“I’ll end the suspense though,” he says, and she looks at him from the corner of her eye, simultaneously hating and loving the smirk that he wears. It’s adorable, but it reminds her of the predatory look Heather gets, when she realises a weakness she can prey on, and get what she wants. Even though that’s surely not what his smirk means, the look is all she can think of. It plays in the back of her head and dances with unsung laughter, one that she knows by heart. She tries to ignore it, and pretend she doesn’t hear Heather’s voice in it too. “I’m Jason Dean. J.D. for short.”

“Well, J.D., it’s nice to meet you,” she says, and it’s true. She’s not one to lie, not if she can help it. It really is nice to meet him, and from the way his eyes sparkle, he seems to think the same. She’s wants to stay here with him, for just a little longer, but she knows it’s a bad idea. Kurt and Ram are probably pissed she left the party early, knowing the two of them. They’d complain about missing their favourite snatch, even though she’s never said yes to having sex with them, and doesn’t even remember it half the time. Still, they’d be pissed that she left, and she knows that it’s not ideal, but apologising to them sounds like the best idea. Even if it ends up with her head going down or salty tasting drinks that leave her stomach turning. She’d rather stay with J.D,, but knows she can’t. With a sigh, she looks to him, and takes in the look of his cute smirk. It might be the last time she gets to see it, gets to be this close to him, after all. “I… I should really get going though. Kurt and Ram are probably pissed I left early, and I should apologise…”

“What? No, fuck them–”

“If I have to,” she says, without really thinking about it, and the look on his face makes her swallow hard, because it was definitely the wrong thing to say. He looks so hurt, like he might cry, and she wants to apologise, but honestly, knows that’s a bad idea. Saying something else would be better than nothing though. She has to explain, somehow. “I mean–”

“No, no. I know what you mean,” he huffs, and her shoulders sag, because she hates the tone he’s using. It’s almost hurt, almost upset really, but she does her best to not let it affect her. She gathers her clothes up off the tray and hugs them close to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut, before she starts to stand, starts to say she’ll be out of his hair soon enough, when she feels his hand close around her wrist. She looks down at him then, and sees something lurking in his eyes, something that she can’t quite place, besides _vulnerability_ , something that Heather would twist and twist until it breaks, and instead, it twists and twists her heart, until she’s sure _she’ll_ be the one to break. “Wait, let me come with you. Just for protection, in case they try anything.”

She hesitates and looks away, without really thinking about it, because as much as she wants to tell him no, she doesn't want to face them alone. Going to Ram's house alone, while knowing that he's probably a little pissed at her for leaving early, makes her more nervous than she's willing to admit. She's scared of what he'll do to her, of what both of them will do to her if they're both still there, and while having the boy who beat them both up the day before isn't a good idea, the thought eases the ache in her chest. She doesn't want to be alone with them. She's scared for it. She looks to him, and sees worry shining in his eyes. And despite herself, she gives a small nod, biting gently on her bottom lip.

“Okay, but… I need to get dressed first. Then we can go.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s almost an hour later that she finds herself hiding her face against his back. The helmet that he had strapped to her head, after helping wrangle her unruly hair into it and apologising for not having a spare, prevents her from hiding her face against him completely, but it offers protection if they crash, and she isn’t willing to give that up. The two of them are on their way to Ram’s house, since that’s where the party was last night, and she hopes since it’s so early, it’ll be before he wakes up. With any luck, Kurt will be there too, and she can apologise to the both of them at once, and get it over with. Hopefully. Worse come to worse, well, she won’t be invited to their parties anymore, and even then, she isn’t sure that’s the worse option. If anything, that’s the outcome she’s almost wishing for, because it at least means she doesn’t have to worry about what they’ll do to her. There’s a voice in the back of her head that reminds her they’ll just target Heather and Heather more if she’s not around, and she tries to ignore how much that terrifies her.

She tries not to think about the two of them and where they could be this morning. If they too were waking up with no memory of the night before in a stranger’s bed, or if they were safe at home. It’s a dangerous line of thought, and while they probably don’t worry about her, she still finds herself worrying about them. If they were safe, or if something has happened. She doubts they ever care about her the same way, but they’ve been her best friends for so long, it’s a second nature to her to worry about them. She worries if Heather eats often, worries about how often she throws up, worries about how much she drinks, and worries about the way she glares at her reflection. She worries about the way Heather seems to crack when no one else is around, worries the about the way she avoids going home, worries about her going through boys like they’re toys to be used and discarded when they bore her, and worries about the long sleeves she constantly seems to wear, even when it’s too hot for them. She worries for the both of them and worries for their well-being, even if they never seem to notice or care.

Hell, even if it almost pains her to admit it, she cares about Veronica too. The newest addition to their group is all sputtering around Heather, biting her tongue and following at her heels like a lost puppy. She worries that Heather is going to gobble her up too, like she’s done to most of the boys in the school, or maybe like she’s done to Heather and herself, and there won’t be anything left of the naive girl they drug into their group. She knows to bend to Heather’s will, always has and always will, but there’s still some semblance of hope for Veronica, and she worries over her too. She worries about the way she scribbles in the diary, worries about the way she stares off into space sometimes, worries about her constant apologies, worries about the way she draws back when Heather gets mad- like she’ll hit her, and Heather hardly ever gets mad enough to even shove someone around, so she isn’t sure where Veronica got that idea from. She worries for her the same way she worries for Heather and Heather, because she already cares for her, even if it’s only been three weeks since they met, and she hates to admit that she cares about her so.

All this worrying isn’t good for her, she knows that, but she can’t help it. She worries and worries and worries, because it’s almost all she has, and she refuses to let that slip from her fingers too, like she let Heather and Heather slip away. With a sigh, she droops her head against his back, and tries to push them from her mind again, because thinking about them is making her sick to her stomach from worry, and she isn’t sure she’s ready to lose the couple glasses of water she drank before they left J.D.’s house. She feels him shifting and turning, the motorcycle going in a different direction, and she follows his movements, molds herself against him, before she feels it all slows to a stop. She cracks her eyes open and finds that they’re parked right beside Ram’s dirty pickup truck. She’s been in it enough to know, on the days he’s willing to take her to the movies or to some other piss poor excuse for a date before he forces himself on her, and the sight of it alone is almost enough to steal her breath away and squish whatever confidence she had built up. But when she looks up at J.D., and sees his eyes almost shining with worry from where he’s looking at her over his shoulder, she finds enough of it again to let go of him and straighten up.

“We’re here,” he says, and she nods, before she slowly swings her leg over the bike. “Careful of the exhaust. It’ll burn you.” Again, she nods, as she slips off, and watches him put the kickstand down. She starts to fumble with the strap as he dismounts off the bike, almost expertly, and finds that some of her hairs have tangled around it and caught in the buttons keeping it in place. Before she can grow too frustrated though, his hands cover hers, and she looks up at him. “Here, let me help.”

“Fine,” she huffs, and drops her hands, even if she’s enjoying the small bit of comfort his hands on hers gave. She allows him to take the helmet off, managing not to pull any hairs, and she almost hates how it feels like he’s done this before. She tries not to think about that though, instead staring off above his head, until the helmet comes off, and her hair springs back to life. There’s a little less of the poof she’s used to when she doesn’t spend hours working on it, and she figures it has something to do with the helmet squishing her curls down. She watches as he sets the helmet on the bike seat, before he looks back to her, and nods towards the house.

“Ready to go see the fucker?” She hesitates again, because no, she really isn’t. She’s never ready to see him, and if she never sees him again, it’ll too soon. She knows she has to though, because Heather would crucify her if she didn’t, and she isn’t sure what Ram would do either. There’s a small voice in the back of her head that tells her she knows exactly what he’d do, but she ignores that voice, and ignores the way the thought makes her stomach turn. Instead, she looks to J.D. and meets his eyes, expression as steely as she can manage with the fear tearing through her stomach. She nods, and he gives a small smirk, holding out a hand to her. She takes his hand, and tries to ignore how it makes her heart flutter and chest ache in a way she isn’t used to, except for when Heather is talking to her in that sweet tone, or when Heather is leaning against her. She chooses to ignore that too, because today is a day for ignoring everything it seems, even common sense.

“Let’s get it over with,” she mumbles, and he nods, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze as they start, together, towards the steps that lead inside, and towards what she’s certain is hell.

Inside, it’s just as bad as she expects. The place looks like a tornado had ripped through it. Pizza boxes, cups, beer bottles, and various trash litter the floor. She has seen the aftermath of parties before, but it doesn't make it any better, and J.D.'s muffled cussing doesn't help. She steps over the trash and ignores the destruction, because right now, she isn't worried about that. This isn't her mess to clean up, it's Ram's, and besides, she's looking for wherever he may have passed out at the night before. She doesn't see him anywhere in the disaster of the living room though, and looks to J.D., chewing on her bottom lip.

“What's that look for, princess? Don't you have a plan?” he coos, and she pulls her hand from his, crossing her arms over her chest instead as she glares at the ground. She doesn't want to admit that, really, she didn't, besides apologising. She wasn't really sure what she was going to do though, and almost wishes she had made a better plan out rather than coming over and apologising, something more detailed and thought out.

“Don't call me princess,” she huffs, because it's so condescending, and she hates it. It's one of those nicknames that always manages to get under her skin, to dig and squirm and make her hate it, because no one every means it nicely. Normally, it's a way to insult her, to remind her that she's rich- as if she needs a reminder- and that her dad is the only reason things are the way they are for her. Still, despite her bit of anger, she looks up at him, putting on the best pout she can, and he looks away. “I do have a plan though… Or, well, kinda? I mean, I was… Mostly just planning on coming here and waking him up. Then apologising and I guess seeing what he wanted me to do so I could make it up to him and make sure he didn't let anyone know I left. Or, I don't know. I guess I could crawl in bed with him and pretend we had sex. Not like he would have been sober enough to remember. They never are.”

“That's kinda fucked up, Heather,” he says, and she shrugs, trying to ignore the way the second option makes her stomach turn. She doesn't want to be near Ram, and doesn't want to have to pretend that she had sex with him, but right then, she can't think of anything better. She doubts anyone else noticed she left anyways, so she could probably get away with it, as long as J.D. doesn't say anything. She doesn't think he'd be the type to do that though, not really, but isn't sure how to ask him not to say anything about last night or this morning. “I've got a better idea than pretending he raped you though. What if we get him something to drink to help his hangover?”

“Like a prairie oyster?” she asks, and he shrugs. She pauses to think it over, because she isn't really sure about the idea. Would Ram even drink something like that? Given, she has seen him down the cafeteria food, and that stuff is barely edible at times, so she doesn't doubt that he could stomach it. What gnaws at her the most is the idea of him trying to drink it and actively accepting her apology because of it though, and even then, she isn't sure she likes the idea. “I don't know… I don't think he'd accept my apology because of a hangover cure, J.D....”

“What's the worst that can happen if he doesn't though? He'll tell everyone you didn't sleep with him? Isn't that a good thing?” She isn't sure how to tell him that it isn't, because she doesn't want to face the rumours that will be spread about her being a dyke or stuck up, so she shrugs. He sounds so exasperated and she hates it, but really, she isn't sure how to make things better, besides maybe going along with his plan, and she isn't entirely sure she wants to. She doesn't want to try giving Ram some dumb hangover cure, because there's not really a chance it'll work, and the knowing that, along with the idea of the rumours he could spread, of how he could ruin her life and have everyone, including the other two Heathers and Veronica, hating her, it makes her nervous. Still, she can't keep letting him rape her forever, not when he hates wearing condoms and likes renting her out to all of his buddies that ask, because she's almost certain that one day, he's going to end up getting her pregnant, and the thought alone makes her queasy. So she nods as she looks to him, her expression as hard as she can make it.

“Okay. A hangover cure. That sounds nice. What should we put in it? Know any good recipes?” she asks, and his eyes spark.

“Take me to the kitchen and I can show you some.” So she does. She leads him, through the trash, to the kitchen, and tries to ignore the disaster area that consumes it as well. She isn't sure what he wants her to do, so she pushes some of the trash off one of the counters and perches herself on it with relative ease, staring at him as he starts looking through the cabinets. She isn't sure what he's looking for, so she sits back and watches for a few moments, wondering if he'll ask her for her help. She knows that she won't be able to help much, because she doesn't really know what's inside the cabinets and barely knows her way around the house, but she can at least help look, if he wants. Before he does ask though, he finds what he's looking for, and lets out a small, adorable, 'aha!' as he pulls a mug from one of the cabinets. He brings it over to her, and sets it down on the counter next to her, his eyes sparkling. “Okay. Are you ready to learn a master hangover cure?”

“Sure,” she chirps, and he beams. It's adorable, the way he seems so happy to help, and she has to wonder how he knows so much about hangover cures. Maybe he drinks? She decides not to ask about it, because she honestly isn't one to judge, not like Heather and Heather, and besides, she doesn't have much room to judge, not with drinking being one of her own habits, unhealthy as it is. She watches as he goes to the fridge and gets out a few bottles, ones she doesn't bother to read the labels on, and brings them over to where he sat the mug. He holds the first one up, his eyes gleaming, and shakes it so she can watch it swish.

“About a teaspoon of this,” he tells her, and she nods, barely paying attention to what he's saying as he starts mixing the concoction. The entire time, he's talking to her, telling her about how much of each ingredients to add, and she hates that she doesn't really listen, but honestly, she isn't all that interested in what he's making. She's more interested in seeing him so happy, because it's adorable, the way his eyes crinkle and the smile he wears, and wonders what all she can do to make him keep smiling like that. She watches his face more than his hands, because all he's doing right then is pouring a bunch of stuff that definitely shouldn't go together in a mug, and she doesn't care to see what it looks like. It's all disgusting, a murky almost brown colour, and when he adds a raw egg to the mix, she finds her stomach turning dangerously. She's glad she isn't the one to drink it then, even as he starts putting everything away, and searching through drawers, still rambling to her. “...and now we stir it up. Or, we will as soon as I find a spoon. Which damn drawer are they…”

The way he trails off as he opens another drawer makes her nervous, and she slides off the counter rather easily, making her way over to him in hopes of finding what stalled him so easily. She slips over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, peeking around carefully, to see what he's looking at. “What? What'd you find?”

“These,” he mumbles, and holds up a plastic baggy. There are dozen of little pills in the bottom, and the sight of them is enough to make her take a step back. She knows what they are, because she's seen enough pictures of them in health class, and is almost certain that one of them were what ended up in her drink the night before, what made her black out, because she knows, _knows_ , that she didn't drink enough to black out. Rarely has she ever got black out drunk, and it's never been after one or two drinks like the night before. The sight of the pills makes her chest ache, and she has to wonder how many different girls have had their nights ruined because Ram had put one of those pills in their drinks. They're all different colours, different types of pills, and she hates them, more than she hates anything at that moment. “Guess we solved the mystery of who drugged you last night.”

“Right,” she mumbles, and he wraps an arm around her, pulling her against his chest. She leans into his touch and closes her eyes, trying to ignore the waves of panic and anger lapping at her ankles. It takes her a moment to calm down, to stop being so _pissed_ at Ram, because while she knew he was the type of guy to do that, and had her suspicions that he had done it to her in the past, she never had evidence, not like now, and knowing that he has drugged her before, and would probably drug her again in the future, it makes her want to cry. Eventually though, with J.D.'s arm around her as comfort, she manages to relax, and look into his eyes. “We should throw them away.”

“Orrr… We could put a couple in his drink. So he knows what it's like to wake up with no memory of what happened. Then we can throw them away.” She pauses, as she thinks it over. Would it really be a bad idea to put just a pill or two in Ram's drink, so that he knows how it feels? He had done it to her, to countless other girls, plenty of times, so she really can't see the problem, even though she's trying hard to look for one. She wants to find a problem, a reason to say no, but can't, even though she's trying hard. She squeezes her eyes shut and steps away from him, closing her eyes and letting out a small sigh.

“Okay. Okay, fine. We can do that. But I don't… I don't want to see it. You do that, and I'm gonna go find where he passed out at. I'll come find you when I know where he is,” she sighs, and he makes an affirmative noise. She steps away, steps out of the kitchen then, and goes to find Ram, wherever he might have passed out at the night before.


	2. Chapter 2

She finds Ram, eventually, half passed out face first on his bed. His pants are pulled down around his ankles, and his face is buried in the sheets, and she quietly wonders if there was maybe some poor girl with him at some point, one that managed to get away like she never managed to, or one that left before they showed up and is going to spend all day regretting what happened. However, she doesn’t care enough to know if Ram made some poor girl have sex with him or not, not really, so she ignores that thought process in favour of finding J.D. again. She at least knows where Ram is now, but like hell is she going to wake him up right now. Like hell is she going to wake him up alone. Not when the fear of retaliation is playing in the back of her head.

Instead, she turns and retraces her steps to the kitchen, the layout only half memorised from parties they’d thrown. Still, it takes her no time to find her way back to the kitchen, to find her way back to J.D.. When she steps in the kitchen, his back is to her, and it looks like he’s stirring something. She isn’t quite sure what, not really, but she takes a moment to look him over regardless. She’s only spent the morning with him, so she hasn’t really gotten the chance to look him over until now. He’s taller than her, she notes. A head or so, at least, but that’s really all she can see through that trenchcoat he’s been wearing since she woke up.

She wonders, for a moment, why he’s wearing it, because really it isn’t cold enough for it, but she isn’t going to question him on it. She doesn’t have the place to, really. She barely knows him, knows little more than his name and face, and it isn’t her place to ask. But looking over him, there’s a voice in the back of her head that reminds her Heather would disapprove. She’d mock her for finding him cute, and mock him for thinking he was a somebody. And Heather would join in, because that was what she did, and since Heather and Heather were mocking him too, she’d be forced to join in, even if she didn’t want to.

The thought makes her stomach turn, but she tries to ignore it, even though she knows it’s true, as she makes her way over to his form. He stops stirring just as she’s a couple feet away, and sets down the spoon, before he turns around, the mug in his hand. She hadn’t been expecting him to turn around right then, not really, so she yelps, and he makes this strangled noise in the back of his throat that almost sounds like a yelp too, before his brows furrow, and he straightens up, holding the cup close. Not a drop of it was spilled, thankfully, and she would hate having to clean it up if it was. The contents of that cup are disgusting, were before he added the pill, and she doesn’t want to touch it.

“Fuck, Heather. Give a guy a warning next time you decide to sneak up on him. Did you find Ram?” She decides against saying that she wasn’t really sneaking, she was just being her normal self, and instead nods. She’s learned there’s no point in arguing with anyone, especially not Heather or Heather, and figures it’s the same way with him. Why wouldn’t it be? He can’t be that much different from everyone else she’s ever known. Even her parents don’t like when she argues, when she tries to explain why she got home late the night before, and she’s given up trying to argue with anyone at this point, because no one ever listens to what she has to say.

“Yeah… He’s upstairs in his bedroom,” she says instead of trying to argue, but then has to bite her lip. Even as JD nods and starts towards the stairs, nerves bubble up, and she had to turn and face him again. “Wait… I don’t know if you should be in the room when I give it to him. He isn’t gonna take anything from you, not after you beat him and Kurt up. I don’t… I don’t want to go in there alone, but you can’t… You can’t come in.”

For a moment, his shoulders slump, and she’s worried she’s done something wrong. She’s worried he’s going to yell at her like Heather would, or mock her for being scared of what Ram will do to her- or worse, to him. She can see a million different ways he can tear her apart, force her to do what he wants, and a million more where it’s Heather that’s biting her head off and telling her to do as she’s told like a good little girl. So when he turns around, she flinches, because she’s ready to be yelled at and berated like a disobedient dog, but instead, he nods slowly and surely, and holds out the cup to her. And when she stares at the cup, unsure what he wants her to do, he looks like she had chosen to hit him instead, some kind of weakness playing across his face.

“You can give it to him then, Heather. But I’m not leaving you guys alone. I’ll stand just outside the door if I have to, as long as you’re in there with him. And if things start going south because he’s getting handsy or whatever, then… Yell for me, and I’ll be right there,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice is all it takes for her to take the cup. She holds it close to her chest and he smiles in a way that’s almost caring, or maybe it is just caring and she’s so unused to seeing it that she doesn’t know what it looks like, before they start, together, out of the kitchen. She leads him to Ram’s room, with almost practised ease from retracing her steps from all the times she’s left his room the morning after a big party, and he takes one look inside before he draws back and scowls, glaring at a stain on the carpet like it personally offended him. “Leave the door open.”

“I… I will. Thank you for coming with me. You really didn’t have to do any of this, and… You did. Thank you,” she mumbles, and hesitates, just a little. Without a second thought to what she’s doing, she grabs his shoulder and pulls him down a little closer. She stands on her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his cheeks that leave her own burning, before she scurries inside Ram’s bedroom, leaving no time for him to say or do anything in response. She isn’t even sure what he would have done, not really, but she also doesn’t care to stop and find out. Not with the heavy weight of the mug and the murky brown liquid inside in her hand. No, she stumbles over to his bed instead, because whatever Ram wants to do to her when she wakes him up is easier to face than whatever J.D. is going to do for her kissing his cheek, so she instead focuses on the way Ram’s chest rises and falls.

She has to step over dirty clothes and trash, mostly used napkins that she doesn’t try to think about, and stops by the side of his bed, beside his still body. It’s the most peaceful she’s ever seen him, and it’s disgusting. He doesn’t deserve to be peaceful. He doesn’t deserve to have a good night’s sleep, not with what all he’s done to her, to countless other girls that have gotten roped into his sick parties with drugged drinks. 

She’s almost tempted to dump the mug all over his hair, to listen to him shriek at the feeling of the gross contents all over him, and to let him know that was how it felt to wake up with his cum dried in her hair or on her thighs. The only thing that stops her, really, is the memory of what J.D. mixed in. A little white pill that would knock him back out and then they could do whatever they wanted without having to worry about him waking up. That thought alone is all that forces her to shake his shoulder instead of dumping the cup on his head. With that said, she isn’t gentle waking him up. She’s as rough as she can be, shaking him hard enough to make the bed rattle just a little against the wall, and when he gives a small groan and swats her hand away, it annoys her more than anything that he isn’t waking up with how she’s treating him.

“Ram! Ram, wake up! I uh… I got you something to drink to help your hangover! Come on, wake up… Please? I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want to make up for leaving early last night, if you’ll just… Wake up?” The more she talks, the more desperate her tone sounds, and she hates it. She hates thinking she’s desperate for him to wake up, even if it’s just because she wants this over with and wants to go home. She wants to go home to her own bed, to call Heather and Heather, and maybe even Veronica if things go okay, to make sure they all got home safe and aren’t missing or passed out in a stranger’s bed with no memory of the night before. She wants to get this over with, give him the gross drink and knock him out. Then, maybe once he’s knocked out, draw pictures on his face, put his hand in cold water, something embarrassing, just so he knows what it’s like to wake up regretting his night before. She isn’t sure what else she’d do, really, but maybe J.D. has ideas, and that’s what keeps her going. “Come on, Ram…. Wake up.”

There’s another groan before his eyes crack open, and he looks up at her. She offers the drink instead of saying anything else and he snatches it up without a second thought, scrambling to sit up before he chugs it, as if it doesn’t taste disgusting. She’s sure it does, but isn’t one to say anything. Even when he throws the cup on the ground and flops back, crossing an arm over his eyes, she stands still. 

For a few minutes, maybe four or five, he’s quiet and still, and she’s just starting to wonder if maybe he’s gone back to sleep, when he moves his arm slightly, just enough she can see his eyes, and he gives a small grin that makes her stomach turn with nerves. It’s not a good grin, not like when they win a game and he comes running off the field beside Kurt while they hoot and holler. No, it’s the same grin that tells her to check her drinks, to ask Heather to take her home, to try and get away before it’s too late. It’s already too late however, and they both know that.

“You said anything… And that includes fucking me, doesn’t it?” he asks, disgusting lust in his tone, and she ignores the way it makes her stomach turn. Instead, she nods, because she just needs ten minutes more. It’s already been five and she just needs ten. Ten minutes more and the pill should knock him out, because it’s been at least fifteen. Ten minutes and she could take her revenge, however petty it might be, and they could leave. Ten minutes. He can’t do that much in ten minutes, can he? He’s still mostly asleep, so there’s no way he can do that much in ten minutes. She hopes. “That’s what I thought. You’re such a little slut, and you’re lucky you’re a good lay, else I might have ditched you by now. Now come on, get up here on the bed.”

She wishes she wasn’t a good lay. She wants nothing more than to be the worst lay of his life. Maybe then she’d be left alone. By him, by Kurt, by all the other football players and entitled boys who think she’s worth a good fuck. Maybe if she had a gag reflex, or didn’t trust boys who gave her open drinks, or used her teeth more, then she’d be a bad lay. But she isn’t. So she climbs on the bed, despite the fact it makes her shake and her stomach knot with nerves.

He sits up and pulls her onto his lap, and she leans into him, trying not to think about the fact that his pants are off and he’s only got his boxers on, or that she’s still wearing her party dress from the night before. She tries not to think about the fact that J.D. is probably watching from the doorway, even as Ram’s fingers tangle in her hair and he kisses her. It’s gross, because his breath wreaks of last night’s alcohol and the aftertaste of whatever the hell was in the mug he had drank is still lingering on his lips, but she tries not to focus on it right then. She instead tries to focus on what she knows about kissing, on how to make her tongue twist and nip at his lips just a little, and how to part her lips when his tongue is pressing against her, even though the feeling of his tongue invading her mouth makes her want to throw up.

He pulls her hair and she moans like she knows she’s supposed to, and he groans against her lips. She lets her mind go fuzzy then, because it’s easier to focus on what she’s supposed to be doing, instead of what she hates about this all, and the only thing she dares to focus on is the thought of how much longer she’s got left until he finally passes out. She finds herself thinking of Heather and Heather, for just a moment, and she wonders how it would be to kiss either of them instead, if she’d actually enjoy it compared to kissing Ram, but quickly pushes the thought down.

And for the next five minutes, she sits on his lap and kisses him like she knows she’s supposed to. She lets herself melt against him, moans when he does something she thinks is supposed to make her moan, and grinds down on his lap until she can feel something pressing against her thigh. She tries not to think about how it makes her want to throw up. Because she hates it, and even with his tongue in her mouth, sloppy and disgusting, she can feel acid burning in the back of her throat. She knows that afterwards, she’s going to be sick, just like she always does, but she really tries not to think about it. It’s normal, as far as she’s concerned. Even when he pushes her back on the bed and climbs on her, pinning her down and leaving her no way to get away.

Then, before he can do more, there’s a crash. It echoes throughout the house, and Ram pulls away as it registers in his mind. She barely thinks anything about it, glad that he’s no longer kissing her, even if his movement is sluggish, until she remembers J.D. and it hits her that crash had to be him. Oh no. He did something, and Ram is going to make him pay for that. She’s sure of it.

“What the hell was that,” Rams yells, just as he’s climbing off of her and off the bed, and she couldn’t be more grateful, even if she’s worried about what J.D.’s done. Ram is lethargic as he starts out of the room, and she scrambles to follow despite herself, because she’s worried about what’s going to happen to J.D. when Ram gets downstairs. She isn’t sure that she could even do anything if it came to it, or even that J.D. will need her to, but the thought of him being at his mercy worries her more than she’ll ever admit.

As they walk down the hall and towards the stairs, Ram stumbles, leaning against the wall slightly, and she wonders when exactly he’s going to drop. It’s going to be soon, she knows that, and she watches him slide along the wall, not seeming to realise how the pills are affecting him. She wonders if he even cares, if he even notices that something is wrong, and figures that he doesn’t. He probably doesn’t recognise the signs in himself, only noticing them in girls he’s drugged, and she can only smirk as she watches him push off the wall to start down the stairs.

Until, of course, he falls. It’s one swift movement, and it freezes in her mind as he tumbles down the stairs, body letting out a sick crack that makes her stomach turn and swirl worse than his kisses did. She can’t think to do anything other than scream as his body goes limp at the bottom of the stairs, and she wants to run, to him or away, but instead, she freezes. She can’t wrap her head around it, not with seeing his body lying prone and frozen at the bottom of the stairs, a small amount of blood starting to leak out of his mouth. It pools, burning into her mind. Even when she blinks, she sees it. She isn’t even sure when she’s blinking and when she’s not, until J.D. steps over, staring at the frozen body of Ram.

“Oh my god!” she screams, as J.D. bends down, putting his hand on Ram’s neck in a way she’s sure is supposed to check his pulse, and she finds herself leaning against the wall. She slides down it, barely hearing his words. He’s saying something to her, but she doesn’t understand it, even as he runs up the stairs towards him. None of it registers, not until he tugs her to her feet and shakes her shoulders, and even then, all she can see is the broken body at the bottom of the stairs, leaking out of his mouth. She isn’t looking at it anymore, but it’s all she can see, the image burned into her head.

“Get up! We have to get out of here! We gotta go! Come on, Heather!” She hears his words, but even as he drags her down the stairs, they don’t register. She gingerly stumbles over Ram’s body, tears pricking her eyes, and as J.D. drags her towards the door, a sob breaks out of her throat. She can’t believe this is happening. She can’t wrap her head around it at all.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she manages to choke out, the image of Ram’s broken and twisted body still playing in her mind as his blood soaks into the hardwood floor. J.D. pauses at her words, one hand on the doorknob, the other around her wrist, and he turns to look at her, his expression unreadable. She chokes on another sob, squeezing her eyes shut as everything hits her. They’re murderers. Ram’s dead, and they were the ones to kill him. “We killed him. He’s dead, and we killed him!”

“It wasn’t supposed to go that way,” J.D. mumbles, but his hand slips off the doorknob, and instead, he turns to open his arms to her. She falls into them, limp and needing the comfort his arms provide, and one hand finds its way to her hair, tangling in it and smoothing it out as gentle as it can be. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t… He was just supposed to fall asleep, and I-I just… Just wanted him to get off of you--”

“We have to turn ourselves in!” she cuts off, not even thinking about what she’s saying, but knowing that they can’t run away. The police will catch them, they’ll be arrested and sentenced to years in jail, or  _ worse _ . They’ll be ruined, everyone will know, everyone will find out what happened and rumours will spread. Heather and Heather will hate her and it’ll ruin everything for them too…

Her thoughts are cut off as J.D.’s hands land on her shoulders and pull her away, eyes shining in a way that looks almost wild, and she barely realises that she can’t breathe, that her chest is tight. Hyperventilation is lapping at her heels, and she barely manages to reel herself in, only just so, and only because of him. Only because of the hands on her shoulders grounding her. He’s the only thing keeping her from breaking down completely and entirely, even as tears stream her cheeks. He’s keeping her thoughts from racing too much though, keeping her breathing steady and keeping her in the present, and that’s all she can ask for, she supposes, as he finally starts to speak.

“No! No, we… I have a better idea. You have to listen to me, okay?” She nods, slow and simple as she can manage, and he looks behind her. Undeniably towards Ram, she’s sure, before looking towards her again, his face surprisingly calm. “We’re… You’re gonna call the police. You’ll tell them you woke up in his bed after you heard him fall down the stairs, and that they need to send an ambulance. Do not say anything about me being here, or what you gave him. I’ll stick around, and we can say that you called me to pick you up before you heard him fall. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees, her voice soft, and she can’t possibly think of arguing with him. She can’t. Just like with Heather, her mouth is dry, and she finds herself bending to his will. There’s nothing she could ever think of saying, and he lets go of her, pressing a kiss to her lips that sends everything turning in a weird way and sends her heart fluttering. He points her towards the phone and she moves automatically. She isn’t going to argue, she has nothing to say, and just like with Heather, she’ll bend to his will. Just like she’s bent to countless others.


End file.
